


Shameless

by Piscaria



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 20:23:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esca goads Marcus into a massage at Uncle Aquila's bath house. Need I say more?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shameless

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jessica for the quick beta job!

The steam of the bath house rose warm and fragrant around him as Marcus worked the cork free from the bottle of oil, pouring a small stream of it into his palm. The rich aroma of olives and lavender blossomed in the air, and Marcus inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves. He’d poured oil for the bath, of course, hundreds of times. But that was only to clean himself. Despite his orders, Marcus’s gaze drifted up from the small pool of oil in his palm, to Esca, laying naked on the table, his bare skin still flushed and damp from from the hot water.  
  
He thought his heart would stop earlier when they’d first climbed out of the caldarium, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the stone floor behind them. Marcus had reached for the oil, planning to clean himself, as he had since he’d freed Esca three weeks ago. But Esca’s hand had closed over Marcus’s.   
  
“Let me.”   
  
Marcus had glanced from the oil to Esca, a nervous trickle of something he couldn’t name squirming through his stomach. He had never taken Esca as a slave, and now that Esca was free, of course, it was unthinkable to want to press his lips to Esca’s throat, to bear him down to the floor of the bath house and lick the last remaining droplets of water from Esca’s chest. Esca was his friend. Marcus would never degrade him in such a way. But he wished, he thought darkly, that Esca wouldn’t make it so damned difficult to be virtuous.  
  
“You’re no longer my slave,” he’d said stiffly, looking away from Esca’s naked body to stare fixedly at the wall. His hand still remained trapped under Esca’s. He couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away.  
  
“Can friends not help each other?” Esca asked. Marcus couldn’t see his expression, but from the mixture of amusement and irritation in Esca’s voice, he thought he could picture it perfectly.  
  
He fought to keep his own visage stoic, though his his hand flexed nervously beneath Esca’s long, bow-calloused fingers. “Roman men do not . . . degrade themselves by doing slave work,” he’d mumbled, flustered.  
  
Esca’s face hardened at the words, his brows drawing sharply together.  When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous,” Do you truly think me that much lesser than you?"   
  
Too late, Marcus realized he’d given offense. "Of course not!" he stammered, trying to clamber out of the hole he’d dug for himself. "It’s different to do such work when you are a slave. There is no shame in it then. But you’re free now.”  
  
Esca had stepped closer, glaring up at Marcus, fierce and determined. His hand still gripped Marcus’s, as though proving a point. “When I was a slave,” Esca said, “I found no shame in helping you in the bath house. You are a strong man. A fierce warrior. Why should I feel ashamed to do a shield bearer’s work for you?”  
  
Marcus opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling almost dizzy from their close proximity. Esca had opened his hand, indicating his own naked body.  
  
“Would you truly be ashamed to do the same work I’ve done for you so many times? Do you think so little of me?”  
  
Against his will, Marcus’s eyes flickered up and down Esca’s naked body. A wave of fear and desire swept through him, so strong he had to close his eyes and grip the bottle of oil to keep from being lost in it. “No,” he heard his own voice saying, as though from a great distance. “I would not be ashamed.”   
  
Esca’s slid his hand off Marcus’s, his fingers lingering in a warm caress. “I am not sure I believe you,” he’d said thoughtfully.  
  
Marcus had spoken before he’d considered it, senseless from Esca’s nearness, from the touch of his hand. “Then let me prove it.”  
  
Now, he looked at Esca’s naked body, sprawled lithe and tempting over the towel-covered surface of the wooden table, and wished fervently that he hadn’t been so impulsive. He was abruptly grateful for the towel he’d wrapped around his waist.  
  
Esca lay with one leg extended, the other bent at the knee to expose his pink, wrinkled testicles. His pale cock curled over them, the tip, still tucked away in the foreskin, just brushing the tender skin of his inner thigh. Heat rushed up Marcus’s cheeks and ears, and he made a show of rubbing his oiled hands together, hoping to hide his apprehension. Esca shifted languidly on the table, a half-smile curving his lips. Trying to avert his eyes, Marcus takes a hesitant step towards the table, more relieved than ever that his uncle has a private bath house.  
  
The first time he’d seen Uncle Aquila’s baths, he'd whispered a silent prayer to Mithras before allowing Stephanos to officiously bustle him out of his clothes and into the steaming caldarium. The hot water had eased the tense muscles around his wound, bringing blessed relief. Only when he’d felt the muscles of his jaw relax had Marcus realized how tightly he'd been clenching his teeth since waking at Calleva, sick with pain. Since then, his daily baths had become a respite from agony. Yet still, every time he gripped Esca's shoulder to clumsily leverage himself in or out of the tub, Marcus felt again the relief of privacy.  
  
Someday, Marcus knew, they would have to leave Calleva. Then, he would have to endure the pitying stares, the whispers. But for now, there was only Esca, who had never pitied him. Esca, who was laying naked on the table, waiting for him. Marcus felt more relieved than ever for the privacy. At least Uncle Aquila was out for the day, and Stephanos with him. If either of them saw him doing this . . .   
  
Swallowing, Marcus touched his hands to Esca’s shoulder. This was a safe touch, at least. He's gripped Esca's shoulder hundreds of times. Cautiously, he squeezed the muscle -- for all that he was smaller than Marcus, Esca was well made, firm beneath Marcus’s grip. His skin was warm, but tense beneath Marcus’s fingers, the muscles of his shoulders and neck tight. Marcus dug his thumbs in, trying to ease the tension as Esca had done for him a hundred times, and Esca made a soft, appreciative sound in his throat. His eyes drifted shut, just a flutter of lashes against his pale cheek.   
  
"That is nice,” Esca murmured. “I can see why you enjoy it so."  
  
Marcus’s breath caught. He nearly pulled away, but he reminded himself that he’d launched himself at a speeding chariot, faced down the warriors of the Seal People without shaming himself. Surely he could massage his friend without being a coward. Marcus trailed his hand down Esca's chest, rubbing at the tight spot just below his collarbone.   
  
Part of him wanted to hurry the job. It would be easier to touch lightly, to spread the oil over Esca then scrape it off again with the safe, impersonal touch of the strigulum. But before his manumission, Esca had worked on him for what seemed like hours at a time some days, his nimble fingers seeking out every knot in Marcus's muscles. Surely Marcus could do as much for him.  
  
He spread his hands wide over Esca’s chest, the tip of one finger brushing a nipple. Esca hissed and his cock twitched visibly. Marcus jerked his hands away, blushing hotly.  This happens sometimes, on the massage table , he told himself. A slave would ignore it, or offer his mouth. Marcus pretended he hadn’t noticed, and reached for the curved strigil. Esca squirmed at the first touch of cold metal, and Marcus realized that he was ticklish. Resisting the urge to tease, he pressed harder, scraping the oil from Esca’s chest and following the faint trail of hair down to his stomach. It took every bit of willpower Marcus possessed not to follow the lines of clean skin with his mouth, especially when he could see Esca’s cock, half hard from the contact.  
  
Marcus swallowed, wiping the strigil clean on a towel. Having finished with Esca’s chest and stomach, he should, he knew, move on to his legs. Marcus swept his glance over those well-muscled thighs, so close to Esca’s cock, and felt his courage falter.  
  
"You should roll over," he said, not quite recognizing his own voice.  
  
Esca looked up in surprise, then smiled, his eyes twinkling with some inner delight.  
  
"Yes, that might be nice," he agreed, and rolled onto his stomach, squirming a bit to get comfortable on the table.   
  
As always, Marcus couldn’t entirely suppress the anger that flickered through him at the sight of Esca’s back, lash marks cutting through his pale, smooth skin. He imagined Esca standing shirtless, his face impassive as the whip bit into him. Marcus’s hand trembled a little as he smoothed the oil over the scars, wishing he could clean away the pain and humiliation Esca must have felt. In silent apology, Marcus fell into the massage with renewed fervor, wanting only to show that Rome’s touch didn’t always have to hurt. He palmed his way down Esca’s back, skimming his hands clinically over his hard buttocks before digging into the long, lean muscles of his thighs, his corded calves and his lovely, high-arched feet. He forgot about cleaning, losing himself in the silky slide of Esca’s skin beneath his hands, in Esca’s quiet noises of pain and pleasure as he worked the knotted muscles.  
  
Gradually, Marcus realized that the massage had turned into a series of caresses. He looked down at his own fingers, trailing the most prominent of the scars, a wicked, pink furrow, from below Esca’s sharp shoulder blade to the dimpled hollow above his buttocks. Here, Marcus hesitated, his fingers resting lightly on Esca’s lower back.   
  
Esca squirmed beneath him. “Marcus,” he said, his voice hoarse, “if you stop, I’m going to have to kill you.”  
  
Marcus stared down at him. “You want . . . ?” Cheeks blazing, he trailed off, unable to form the words.  
  
In reply, Esca parted his legs, raising his hips in clear invitation.   
  
Marcus should refuse. He should cork the oil and step back into the villa, letting them both preserve their dignity. But his hands still trembled with the memory of Esca’s skin. Before he quite realized what he was doing, Marcus was reaching for the bottle again, slicking his fingers.   
  
When he pressed one tentative finger inside, Esca groaned, rocking back into the touch, a string of low, filthy-sounding British phrases tumbling from his mouth.  
  
“Mithras,” Marcus whispered, his free hand gripping the table hard enough that he was sure he’d find dents in the morning. Esca’s body was opening for him readily, yielding to two, then three fingers, while Esca squirmed and bucked beneath him, urging Marcus on with his soft, gasping sounds.   
  
“Now,” Esca groaned, grinding back against him.   
  
Marcus swallowed, staring at his own fingers, at how they disappeared into Esca’s body. “I’m not sure you’re ready,” he said, reluctantly withdrawing them to reach again for the oil bottle. Esca growled in response, drawing himself up to his knees.  
  
“I’ll say when I’m ready, Aquila,” he growled, his hand blindly groping behind him until it curved around Marcus’s hip. Marcus spread the oil over his cock, spilling some in his haste, and then Esca’s fingers were on him, guiding him forward into the tight heat of his body. Marcus only had a moment to take in the delicious sensation of being inside Esca before those impatient fingers were tugging at his hips, urging him forward. Esca bucked wildly back against him, spurring him on to harder and harder thrusts, his own hand working frantically at his cock. When Esca came, his body clenched around Marcus, muscles visibly straining, his pale hair dark with sweat.   
  
“Oh gods,” Marcus gasped, and spilled inside him, the pleasure coursing through his body almost too much to bear.   
  
Finally giving into the demands of his injured leg, Marcus slumped, exhausted, to the floor. After a moment, Esca slid bonelessly off the table and melted against him, his cheek resting against Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus brushed the hair from his proud forehead and kissed him there, looking down at Esca fondly.  
  
“You’re filthy,” he said, drawing a line through the mess of seed on Esca’s sweaty belly.  
  
Esca laughed, a low, delighted sound. “You’re welcome to clean me again,” he offered, and pulled Marcus down for a kiss.  
  
The End

**Author's Note:**

> This story can also be found [here](http://piscaria.livejournal.com/190739.html) on LJ.


End file.
